


To Hell and Back

by ThayerKerbasy



Series: Something In Between [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Afterlife, Canon Compliant, Gen, Innuendo, Post-Episode: s12e23 All Along the Watchtower, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-20
Updated: 2018-04-20
Packaged: 2019-04-25 05:59:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14372412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThayerKerbasy/pseuds/ThayerKerbasy
Summary: No one knew what happened to demons after they died.  Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, somewhere else… it was all a big mystery, but Crowley was beyond caring.  Whatever his afterlife was, he just wanted to be done.





	To Hell and Back

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know it's tagged MCD, but please trust that I'll never kill Crowley without exploring what comes after.

With a crackling pop, the angel blade pierced the gut of Crowley’s much-loved meatsuit, through to his smoky inner self. It burned like nothing he had ever felt before — which he had expected, since angels tended to be sadistic bastards who would probably do just fine serving a torturer’s stint in Hell — but it was fine. He was dying for all the right reasons. He was saving the people he cared about and finally defeating Lucifer. Two birds, one incredibly painful angel blade.

No one knew what happened to demons after they died. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, somewhere else… it was all a big mystery, but Crowley was beyond caring. Whatever his afterlife was, he just wanted to be done.

The searing internal electrocution was over more quickly than he’d expected, leaving Crowley stuck in his meatsuit on the hard, dusty ground. It made no sense, he should have been dead. Unless, of course, his afterlife was being stuck in a lifeless, rotting corpse, unable to do anything but think. It was actually brilliant torture for demons who had already endured every form of torture, and if Crowley weren’t the one stuck there, he might have thought to congratulate whoever came up with it.

From his position on the ground, Crowley could just see out of the corner of his eye as Castiel, the bloody idiot, charged in and stabbed Lucifer with an angel blade, as if no one had ever tried that before. Somewhere over by the rift, Dean was shouting the stupid angel’s name like the heartbroken heroine of something romantic while Sam said they had to go and honestly? Neither of them had made a peep when Crowley offed himself for them. Was it so much to ask that someone mourned him?

The sound from the rift told him the brothers had gone, though why the thing was still open when Crowley had sacrificed himself to close it was another frustrating mystery. In his peripheral vision, Lucifer had removed the blade from his gut and was advancing on Castiel, who had turned to leave immediately after stabbing. Crowley spared a moment to hope that Lucifer’s stabbing had been even half as painful as his own.

He was just beginning to wonder if he’d be stuck watching an endless plain of rocky monotone desolation for eternity, when feeling returned to his borrowed (okay, stolen) limbs. Hard on the heels of that realization came a change of scenery that found him sprawled on a slightly chilly tile floor, without even a trace of the dirt which had so recently been pressed against his cheek.

Clambering to his feet, instinct kicked in, reminding him to take in his surroundings and evaluate the possibilities. To all intents and purposes, he was in a cheap motel lobby — ancient floral-patterned armchairs, plastic plants, and dim lighting definitely set the scene — but his brain record-scratched to a freeze frame stop when he saw the man behind the counter.

The fellow was balding, with a cartoonish combover, and he wore what resembled an 18th century riding coat, his appearance only slightly redeemed by his thin wire-rimmed spectacles. Crowley found he didn’t want to know if the trousers matched or not, behind the wooden counter.

The oddly anachronistic man smiled warmly upon being noticed and said, “Greetings, and welcome to the Sleepy Hollow Motel. If you could please sign the register, I’ll get you your room key.”

Unnoticed before, there was indeed a thick book on the counter to track the comings and goings of motel patrons. A quick scan of the register showed a few names he recognized. The one thing he could think that they all had in common was that they were all angels and demons.

The strange desk clerk dangled a keyring on his finger, the tag on the keyring bearing a striking resemblance to the man himself. Seeing the little cartoon figure clad in black and yellow checkered trousers, Crowley decided he had been entirely correct in not wanting to know. Unfortunately, when he reached for the keyring, the man tightened his fingers around it. “If you could please just sign the register first, sir.”

This was one area on which Crowley refused to compromise. “Ah, yes. You see, I don’t make it a habit of signing things before reading the fine print. Now, you can start with who you are, how I got here, and what the hell is this place?”

The man only grinned at that. “Crossroads demon, then. Very well, I don’t imagine you’ll cooperate until you understand. But first, do you happen to recall what happened before you arrived here? Not everyone does.”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I do.”

“Oh good, that rather simplifies matters. So you know you’re dead then. For most people, what comes next is fairly straightforward — humans go to Heaven unless they sold their soul, in which case they go to Hell, monsters go to Purgatory, angels and demons go to the Empty — but in a few rare cases, I get to intervene. You see, change is difficult, and even more so for angels and demons, so it isn’t often you’ll see one of them break their rigid conditioning to do what’s right. But you,” he paused significantly and gave a sly smile, “you were a delight to watch. I put my money on you and I’m so glad you proved me right.”

It was a lot to process, and Crowley was still sorting through the whole “angels and demons go to the Empty” bit, but the man was waiting as if that was his entire explanation. “Right, but that doesn’t tell me who you are or what this place is.”

“Ah yes,” said the clerk, emphasizing his words with the jingling keyring, “I’m so glad you asked. I suppose you’d call this place Limbo, but none of the organized religions really got it right. I much prefer The Sleepy Hollow Motel, myself. See, you could still accept an express ride to the Empty — hop on one of the motorbikes out front and drive into the dark until you can’t hear the engine anymore. The fellow in charge over there will send you off to a sleep from which you’ll never wake. Or,” he slid a pen across the counter towards Crowley, “you could check in and enjoy a reasonably comfortable afterlife here.”

Still considering, Crowley picked up the pen. It was a vintage Perry & Co. Birmingham fountain pen, made sometime around the 1850s, when Crowley was a young crossroads demon making deals with people who sold their souls for food and shelter. He’d had a pen exactly like it back then, the extra little taste of class selling his clients on the deal more often than not.

It wasn’t a bad deal if it was legitimate, and something about the clerk felt honest, if not entirely forthcoming. Crowley could sense something being held back, but that only made sense for a cosmic being. It wasn’t like God or Amara had ever shared everything either. Still, better safe than sorry.

“What if I were to stay without signing?” said Crowley.

The clerk’s face lit up. “Oh! No one’s asked that in quite some time. In that case, I’d get to call in the reaper brute squad to escort you directly to the Empty.”

“In that case,” replied Crowley, toying with the pen, “I’d like to make a counter-proposal. I’ll sign the book after you do one of two things: give me a full tour of everything there is for me here, or tell me your name.”

With no visible change in his expression, the clerk snatched up a riding crop from somewhere out of sight. He didn’t step out from behind the counter, but a copy of the clerk appeared beside Crowley, riding crop in hand and using it to point at the door. “Right then, shall we?”

There was little Crowley could do but follow the strange nameless clerk who was so much more than he seemed. The part of his brain which refused to stop working noted that the man’s trousers were indeed checkered yellow and black like a New York taxi.

Crowley stepped through the motel’s front door into a late spring day, neither hot nor cold but somewhere in between. The sky was mostly grey clouds threatening an eventual storm, but just at the edge of the motel’s parking lot lurked a dark and all-consuming Nothing. It was like the world ended at the edge of the property. Suppressing an all-too-human shiver, he turned away from the Nothing to follow the clerk.

The tour didn’t take very long. There was a row of teal coloured doors, each door leading to a guest’s room, with low hedges separating each, as if they were little houses instead of motel rooms. Another building with more rooms lay beyond the first, and another beside that. In a fenced-off area of its own was a small outdoor pool. The parking spaces were empty, save for a row of motorcycles.

It was all terribly mundane. One could only live in a motel room for so long before there was nothing to do. But when the alternative was essentially not existing at all, it wasn’t much of a choice. At least if the cabin fever drove him to seek oblivion, the means was parked conveniently outside.

The end of the tour found them once more in the motel lobby. Apparently the moderately comfortable armchairs were part of the experience as was the nearby coffee machine. The angel Gadreel — against whom he had once faced off inside Sam Winchester’s head — sat in the oldest and most worn chair, sipping a cup of coffee and reading what looked like a hand-printed newspaper.

It was too good to pass up. While the clerk by his side disappeared, Crowley ignored the one behind the counter and called over to Gadreel, “Oi, Lurch! Long time no see. Tell me, whatever your motivations, you seem an honest fellow. What’s your take on this place?” 

The angel in mortal form looked up from his newspaper. “Ah, greetings demon. It appears I misjudged you. This place is quiet and peaceful. It is a good place, and much better than I deserve. I may yet one day accept the peace of eternal slumber, but until that day, I am enjoying the gentle songs of the birds in the trees.”

“Ah. That sounds…pastoral, I suppose.”

Well, at least that interaction proved that Crowley wasn’t alone with no one but the clerk for all of eternity. When the tour of the motel had revealed nobody, Crowley had been concerned that everyone was utterly alone throughout their stay. Gadreel wasn’t exactly intellectually stimulating, but he was someone to talk to.

“So, will you be staying with us?” asked the desk clerk behind him.

Running his thumb over the pen, which he’d carried with him throughout the tour, Crowley scanned the register once more, but where it had previously shown a list of names, it had since changed to a blank page. Keeping his limited options firmly in mind, Crowley took the top off the pen and before he could overthink matters, he signed his name. Seven letters, not terribly extravagant, but they flashed a sparkling silver for the briefest moment when it was done.

“Excellent,” said the clerk, the key once more dangling from his finger, “You’re in room 6.”

Crowley reached out and claimed his room key with the feeling of having come out second best in the bargain. He couldn’t quantify the reason behind it, since he’d had few expectations of his afterlife and none of them good, but everything he’d done in the past few years had been an utter cock up. He hadn’t even managed to accomplish anything with his noble self-sacrifice, since near as he could tell, the portal had remained open after his death.

Forcing himself to look once more at the oddly-dressed desk clerk, Crowley dredged up a smile. Best to stay on good terms with the being in charge of one’s afterlife. “I can’t say it’s been a pleasure meeting you, but it’s certainly more than I expected.”

Crowley stepped outside, resolutely ignoring the hungry Nothing where the street should have been, and turned left towards the rooms. In the few minutes he’d been inside, the sky had darkened and the few glimpses of sky had been obscured by clouds. Thunder rumbled in the distance and he was fairly certain he felt a drop of water land on his head. It figured his afterlife would get rained on. Hurrying to avoid the oncoming storm, he broke into an undignified run for the last few steps to his new room.

Number six was the first door in the second block of rooms. His key, which was the most modern thing he’d seen since his arrival, fit perfectly. He didn’t even bother to assess the room — beyond confirming it was indeed a motel room — before dashing inside and closing the door behind him.

The sight which greeted him was like someone’s grandmother had been allowed to decorate the room. Wine-coloured carpeting vied with teal green drapes, with the two colours making an uneasy pairing in the awful floral quilt. A painting of a lighthouse on a lonely rocky shore hung over the bed. The lamps on the wooden bedside tables were chunky burgundy things with simple white shades, and the chair shoved awkwardly in the corner looked like the most uncomfortable chair pretending to be comfortable, all hard angles and minimal padding.

At least there was a television. Crowley slipped off his shoes, grabbed the remote, and sat on the bed, his back to the headboard. When he pressed the power button, it turned on in that slow, wobbly way of televisions made decades before. If it was anything like the rest of the room, it was a product of the late 1970s, though it didn’t seem like time was at all constant at the Sleepy Hollow Motel.

There were only a handful of channels, and none of them were airing anything terribly compelling. The only thing in the bedside table drawer was a battered copy of the King James Bible. Apparently some things were universal. He was beginning to see why some people opted to hop a motorbike into the Nothing which was presumably the neighboring Empty.

He was just considering taking a shower until a different show came on when there was a knock at the door. Putting his shoes back on felt disappointing, but he had an image to maintain. As the only one who knew his room number was the desk clerk (two if Gadreel had overheard), Crowley felt justified in answering the door with a scowl. “What sort of bloody afterlife is this?”

Standing outside his door was a scruffy blond man in a black blazer over a v-neck blue tee and tight blue jeans. “Crowley? Bloody hell. Oh, sorry, how rude of me. The name’s Balthazar, welcome to the neighborhood. Now, how in God’s name did you end up here?”

If Crowley was good at anything, it was rolling with the punches. Though he wasn’t familiar with the fellow, he donned his usual flirty smile and replied, “One word. Winchesters.”

“You as well? What is it with those two?”

“They have a particularly virulent strain of free will. It’s fairly contagious.”

Balthazar chuckled and as he did, it stopped raining. A beam of sunlight broke through the clouds quickly enough to resemble time lapse photography.

Without planning out all the possible alternatives, Crowley made an impulsive decision. “Can I interest you in joining me for a cup of coffee? I’d invite you to tea, but I’m not sure such a thing exists here.”

Balthazar visibly considered the invitation, though he didn’t lose his smile. “There wasn’t at first, but a few weeks after I got here, I found an electric kettle in my room. It seems this place is what you make of it. If you want, you’re welcome to a cup of tea in my room.”

Crowley barely had a chance to waggle his eyebrows suggestively before Balthazar added, “For thelove of God, man, pace yourself. We’re here for all of eternity or until we get bored, and I, for one, would like to postpone boredom as long as possible, thank you very much. Besides, some things are much better done slowly.”

The sky was already clearing, the sun shining a spotlight of warmth directly on Balthazar. Crowley couldn’t have asked for a better sign. Double-checking his key was in his pocket, he offered a more genuine smile. “Tea it is, then. If you tell me when you departed the mortal coil, I can fill you in on more recent events. Then perhaps you might show me the… ins and outs of motel life?”

Chuckling once more, Balthazar shook his head, but beckoned for Crowley to follow, going only so far as the next door over. It might not last, but for the moment, his afterlife was definitely better than nothing.

**Author's Note:**

> It's Coldest Hits time again! This month, we were asked to write about the Sleepy Hollow Motel. I had no ideas for this theme until just a couple days ago, at which point the words came pouring out and onto the page. This story was born of love, the idea sparked in those moments before sleep. It's a miracle I managed to hold onto it long enough to write it down.
> 
> I'd love to hear your thoughts. Please feel free to leave me comments, tell me everything or just give me a thumbs up, that's cool too. Comments and kudos in my inbox are literally the fuel that keeps me writing. And if you feel like watching me wrestle with words, you can find me on Tumblr as @thayerkerbasy


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